


A Snowstopped Silent World

by orphan_account



Series: Homeward Wind 'verse [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Political Intrigue, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, after effects of war, tags to be added as we go along, the rebuilding of Erebor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-07-08
Packaged: 2017-12-17 14:34:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story doesn’t end with their victory, and the Company’s first winter in Erebor is - by all accounts - the strangest any of them have ever known.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I owe a debt to madame_faust for certain parts of this fic. My discussions with her (and other lovely people) on tumblr on the subject of Erebor and Dwarves have been extremely helpful, and shaped many of my ideas about how the Dwarven Kingdom functions on a day-to-day basis. Thank you!
> 
> I don't usually recommend music to go with my fics, but I listened to 'Winter Song' by Sara Bareilles and Ingrid Michaelson the other day on youtube, and it fits this story perfectly.
> 
> Here we go again!

The Dwarves were returning to Erebor.

The deep dark of Erebor’s mines and her rocky steppes called them home. It was a tug that they all felt, but few could immediately answer its call. The Lady Dís, attending to business to the north of the Dunlands, had ridden ahead with her personal guard as soon as the first raven had landed to proclaim the mountain reclaimed, and now the first wave of Dwarves were following in her wake.

Hatha was among them. The first lot of caravans were accompanied by the most eager of Dwarves, and those who could easily pick up their lives at a moment’s notice. They were a strange lot. Amongst their number there were very young Dwarves who had just come of age and could not bear to wait for their family to pack up and leave, poor families who had little to carry with them, middle class families that were eager for new opportunities, a handful of high-ranking nobles whose presences were required in Erebor, and, lastly, those who’d had nothing to keep them in their settlements in the first place. She was in this last category.

The length of their journey leant itself easily to boredom, and when Dwarves were bored, gossip abounds. Hatha took great delight in this, and would flit from campfire to campfire, night after night, listening in to stories and sliding easily enough into the conversations of complete strangers. For the majority of the time she would wear a scribe’s braids and beads – few minded her curious questionings when she was wearing them, but occasionally she found it necessary to swap them for a jeweller’s braids, or a seamstresses’ fashionable tresses and bright, glinting beads – whatever would encourage the greatest amount of talking from her target for that night. 

The most popular topic in any group was the matter of the King’s courting. Many a Dwarf claimed to have a cousin of their Uncle’s wife who was at the Battle of Five Armies, or their intended’s grandfather had overheard something at the camps in the aftermath and sent them a missive. Regardless how the information came about, the caravans were rife with the decidedly unusual choice their King had made. No one quite seemed to be able to decide what manner of creature the King’s intended was. He is one of the fey folk, some said. He is a spirit sent down by Mahal himself to protect our King, said others, he walks unseen in the shadows, and when he steps through grass not a blade is disturbed at his passing.

Never let it be said that Dwarves could not be fanciful folk when the urge took them. But Hatha, her curiosity ignited, was spurred on to move from story-teller to story-teller faster than ever - faster than was polite, probably - gathering the best pieces of information from the most reliable of sources, until she had a few, choice phrases: hairy feet. Beardless chin. Pointed ears... _Hobbit_.

But there was one thing that they all agreed on, and that was the Hobbit’s deeds during the Battle of Five Armies. He defended our King, sighed those easily taken by romantic gestures, which were a great many indeed. He fought for the Line of Durin. He stood before Azog and was unafraid, so great was his love, and he almost paid for it with his life. But death could not hold him – he came back, for he wished for nothing more than to stand at Thorin Oakenshield’s side.

Hatha put aside the fanciful notions of her fellow Dwarves to mull over the bare facts she had found. How curious, that a King should choose a Hobbit to court! More curious still was the Hobbit’s supposed skill in battle. She had never heard of a warrior Hobbit before. The whole mystery made her more eager than ever to see Erebor, though they were still likely at least two weeks away.

Hatha knew that there were vast portions of the returning Ereboreans that could scarcely believe their luck. Smaug dead, Azog dead, Erebor returned to them, and their King in love. Surely Mahal was smiling on them. Surely their troubles were at and end and they would live to see Erebor renewed, stronger than ever before. But not all of the Dwarves were so eager to glory in their victory, or to sing the Hobbit’s praises. There were some who scowled when the Hobbit was mentioned, and Hatha had seen many a dark look cast in her direction when she had dared speak of the King’s courting. The looks were always followed swiftly by probing questions – who is this strange creature that so enchants our King? They would say. Why does he wander so far from his kin? They would sneer. Is it love that holds him in Erebor, or the glitter of gold?

She could neatly surmise this sentiment in one damming sentence: _he is not one of us_.

It was enough drama to last her the journey, at least. She sincerely doubted she would see much of this Hobbit when she arrived in Erebor, and whoever the King had deigned to court – Hobbit, Elfling, spirit – it was of little concern to her; she had other things to think about, and other plans to set in motion.

 

 

Bilbo Baggins, Hobbit of the Shire, kin of eagles, a hero of the Battle of Five Armies and the King's intended, was frightfully bored. He was currently tucked up in bed, deep inside the Lonely Mountain, and had the pleasure of a whole room to himself – Thorin had tried to persuade him to take a wing, but Bilbo had insisted that one room was quite enough for a small Hobbit – and his surroundings were beautiful, despite the dust and the age that clung to some of the furnishings. He was in the Royal palace, after all, and had the fortune of a proper bed. But not even the splendid room, or the comfort of the furs piled high on his bed, could provide sufficient distraction for his ever-active mind. He sighed, eyes not really taking in any of the reports in his hands. If his sigh had a melancholy air to it, then he felt as though he could be forgiven. The eagles had taken their leave the day before, and so Bilbo was surely justified in his low spirits. He missed his family already, and the knowledge that they would return in spring hardly cheered him at all.

He was well enough to stand for extended periods of time, but the move from the battlefield camps outside to the Royal Palace inside had caused Oin to confine Bilbo to bed-rest for the next few days. Honestly, it had just been _one_ little fainting spell, did they have to make such a fuss?

Bilbo glanced at the door, considering it for a moment. No, it was no use, he thought, huffing. He knew Thorin to be right outside the door, and Bilbo would likely not be able to sneak past him in his injured state. He flung himself back on his mound of pillows, wincing as a jolt of pain ran though his shoulder even at this soft impact. The ceiling was intricately patterned in geometric designs, a sunny yellow set against a luminous cerulean background. It was beautiful, and utterly boring.

As if someone could hear Bilbo’s internal griping, there was a knock on the door.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ muttered Bilbo to himself, ‘come in! You don’t have to knock, you know.’

Thorin stepped in, closing the door behind him. ‘It’s only polite,’ he said, ‘I thought Hobbits went in for that sort of thing.’

'Oh, thank _goodness_ ,' Bilbo breathed, 'have you brought food? Have you brought news of the outside world?'

Thorin raised his brows a fraction. ‘I’ve only been gone for half an hour.’

‘You didn’t answer my question. Did you bring food?’

‘Dare I come into the room without it?’ said Thorin, and passed Bilbo an apple before taking a seat next to his bed.

‘An apple?’ blinked Bilbo, ‘I had expected the food in the Royal household to be a little better,’ he shot Thorin a side-ways look, ‘and the service a great deal more polite.’

‘Durin’s beard, you’re grumpy today,’ Thorin said with an amused smile, ‘you’re almost as bad as Luaithre.’

‘Worse,’ Bilbo admitted around a mouthful of apple.

‘I can believe it.’ Thorin gestured to the apple. ‘That’s the last of the late season apples.’

Bilbo’s chewing slowed for a moment, his air of irritability melting away.

‘We’ll be low on food, soon,’ said Thorin.

‘What about Daín?’

‘He’s agreed to send us what we need to survive the winter – at little expense.’

Bilbo made a disgruntled noise at the back of his throat. ‘It should be at _no_ expense,’ he grumbled.

Thorin nodded his agreement. ‘I know, but he will help us in other ways, and besides – we can afford it now,’ he added with obvious satisfaction. ‘We’re exporting more food from further abroad. We’ll have to hope we have enough to tide us over until the first caravan arrives from Daín.’

‘Well, I hope I can help soon. I might die of boredom, otherwise.’

‘It’s only a couple of day’s worth of bed rest. You’ll be back on your feet soon.'

'Not soon enough,' Bilbo griped.

‘If you’re looking for something to do to fill the time,’ began Thorin, reaching out to take the hand that was not holding an apple, ‘then I’m sure we could find you something.’

‘Oh?’ said Bilbo around a mouthful of apple.

‘You could learn Khuzdûl.’

Bilbo flicked his eyes over to Thorin. There had been a strange undertone to Thorin’s words, something that he couldn’t put his finger on. A quick examination of Thorin’s expression proffered no clues – perhaps it had been Bilbo’s imagination.

‘Yes,’ said Bilbo slowly, ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you about that. I’m sure I’ll need a teacher, though – I’d be very surprised if there were any Westeron to Khuzdûl exercise books.’

‘There are none, no. I’m sure Dís won’t mind teaching you, if you ask her nicely. I’d teach you myself, but I fear our time together may be few and far between in the coming days, and I would not waste what little we will have on language lessons.’

‘Doesn’t Dís have other things to be getting on with?’ Bilbo asked, placing his apple core to one side.

‘Dís is...a stern taskmistress,’ Thorin said, grimacing, ‘you’d actually be doing us all a great favour if you distracted her for an hour or two every day.’

Bilbo chuckled, running his fingers over Thorin’s callused palm. ‘Not even the King is free from the tyranny of little sisters, then?’

‘Hardly,’ said Thorin, ‘sometimes I think Dís should be Queen, but then the thought is too terrifying to contemplate, and I have to stop thinking about it.’

Bilbo’s chuckle grew to a laugh, ‘I’ll ask her when I next see her, I promise. It’ll help both of us. I’ve been wanting to converse with you in your own language for quite some time now.’

Thorin hummed in thought and smiled a little. ‘I would like that. Perhaps one day you might return the favour, and teach me how to speak as the eagles do.’

It was Bilbo’s turn to raise his eyebrows. ‘You’d do that? But there’s no real need for it, surely.’

‘Oh, I’m not so sure about that,’ Thorin said warmly, ‘I’m sure it will have its uses, and perhaps next time I see your eagle kin I’ll be able to understand their gossiping. I swear they were talking about me last time I saw them.’

Bilbo grinned, ‘only a little, and only good things, I promise. Ha! I’d pay good money to see you surprise them,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘but enough of that – tell me what’s going on out there. How goes the restoration? Are all of the camps inside, now?’

‘No, not yet. It will be a few more days before they are all moved inside. We’ve allocated the market to Daín’s army and any Dwarves that might arrive before winter sets in. I’m not sure how many of Daín’s men wish to stay. Some of them are of Ereborean descent and may want to reclaim their ancestral homes.’

‘Will they be able to move into their houses soon? Surely they can’t be spending the entire winter inside the marketplace!’

‘They can’t move in yet, Bilbo. Not all of them, at least.’

‘Why ever not?’ 

Thorin’s gaze was patient and overshadowed with sadness. ‘Because there will be a great deal of confusion, and many, many disputes over who owns what. For the most part, the lower classes will be able to move back in with little fuss. But for everyone else...Smaug killed many Dwarves. Many more survived. Some of them remarried. Some had children. Some died in Ered Luin, or other settlements. Who’s to say who owns what?’

‘Oh,’ said Bilbo, ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

‘We Dwarves are very particular about contracts, wills and the ownership of property, but there will still be a great many disputed claims. It is likely to be a very tedious, very complicated process.’

‘I pity the Dwarf that has to sort it all out,’ Bilbo said. The whole thing sounded more complicated than a family tree in the Shire.

‘It’ll not be lumped on one poor soul. It’s why my first edict will be to open up the Law-courts.’

Thorin’s sentence was punctuated by the door suddenly swinging open again, and Dís entered.

‘Not all of us are so concerned with manners, I see,’ said Thorin off-handedly.

‘I could hear you two chatting and thought there was no need to knock,’ said Dís breezily, ‘how are you feeling today, Bilbo?’

‘I’m well,’ said Bilbo, ‘but terribly _bored_. Thorin and I were just discussing what his first edict to be.’

‘Yes - I was speaking with Balin this morning about how we need the Law-courts to be reopened as soon as possible. ‘

Dís smiled. ‘No, actually,’ she said, ‘I think you might find that your first edict as King-in-waiting will be to declare me as the Spy Mistress.’

Thorin sat back in his chair and frowned at Dís. ‘What? I ordered no such thing-‘

‘Yes, you did. I even drew up all of the paperwork for you.’

‘But you would need my...’ Thorin half-shook his head, eyes widening in disbelief. ‘You _forged_ my signature?’

Dís shrugged unconcernedly. ‘Just a little,’ she said.

‘Putting aside the fact that you _forged my signature_ for the moment - Dís, you _cannot_ take the role.’

‘Yes, I can.’

‘No, you _can't_.’

Bilbo was starting to get neck strain from looking back and forth between them. Dís put her hands on her hips and raised her eye brow at her brother.

‘Give me one good reason why not, Thorin.’

‘It's far too visible a role! It's dangerous work!’

‘I am no stranger to such things, as you well know,’ snorted Dís.

‘We were about to elect _Nori_ to the role.’

‘Nori? No. He'd never take it. As you'd said, the position is far too visible. Why, he'd never be able to get any work done! And being confined to _office-work_ is hardly something that would suit him, is it? He'd be much better as my Lieutenant.’

Thorin’s hands clenched the air for half a moment as though he would dearly love to shake Dís by the shoulders.

‘And what's to say that he'd accept _that_ role? You're not making any sense!’

‘I'm making perfect sense. I will have a chat with Nori and explain the situation to him. He wants his freedom more than anything, Thorin, and being my second-in-command would allow him that.’

‘Dís,’ Thorin ground out, ‘you cannot be going around making decisions in my name. If someone found out-‘

Dís looked chastised at this, but only a fraction. ‘I know. First and last time, I swear it.’ She smiled and added, ‘I swear it on pain of the Bear with the Broom coming to chop me up into little pieces.’

Thorin looked at her out of the corner of his eye. A begrudging ghost of a smile smile - quickly swept away - tugged at the corners of his lips.

‘Fine. If you want it so badly, it’s yours. But you _will_ carry out my orders, Dís. To the letter.’

‘Of course, Thorin. You have my word.’

Thorin glowered at her and said, ‘I can hardly rescind it now.’ Something seemed to occur to him then, and his demeanour visibly lightened. ‘If you're so enamoured with the role, then I can get you started on it right away. I'll have the paperwork sent to your new office.

‘If you could, that would be useful,’ said Dís, ‘I'll see to it after me and Mister Baggins have had a chat.’

‘Lots of paperwork,’ said Thorin meaningfully. ‘Quite a few mounds, from what I hear from Balin. We’re fond of our contracts for the Spy master role, you see. We used to have a great deal of informers and their contracts will likely still be in effect,’ he said, speaking for Bilbo’s benefit. Bilbo nodded his understanding bemusedly.

Dís' expression didn't budge an inch.

‘I'm sure they'll need wheelbarrows to cart it all in. But I'm sure you'll still be able to find somewhere to sit, dear sister.’

‘Thank you Thorin,’ said Dís as Thorin rose from his seat, ‘you’re too kind.’

‘Oh, not at all.’ There was a decidedly evil note to Thorin’s voice. ‘Let me know if you need any more.’

‘I’ll be sure to do that.’

Thorin smiled congenially, kissed Bilbo on the cheek, and took his leave. Dís watched him go, glaring at the door as it swung shut. Her expression clearly said: _you’ve won this round, brother, but I’ll get you back._

‘What was it that you wanted to talk to me about?’ said Bilbo politely.

Dís turned back to Bilbo and took Thorin’s seat, still looking faintly annoyed. ‘I was hoping you’d tell me a story, Bilbo, if you would be so kind.’

‘A story?’

‘Yes, but not just _any_ story. I have not yet had the chance to hear about the Company’s journey. Kíli and Fíli have told me bits and pieces, but their narrative was a little...sporadic, shall we say, and I am sure they have left out large swathes of the story. They told me you were a master storyteller, and so I was hoping you might indulge my curiosity, and we could alleviate your boredom at the same time.’

Bilbo puffed up a little to hear that. It seemed a fair exchange, and he had not had a chance to weave a tale for many months. Still, though, that did not mean that he had to immediately agree to the suggestion.

‘I will,’ said Bilbo carefully, ‘if you teach me Khuzdûl in exchange.’

Dís blinked in surprise, then grinned. ‘Now you are thinking like a Durin,’ she said approvingly. ‘Of course I will - it would be a pleasure. I’ll even teach you the swear words first. Agreed?’

Bilbo reached out with his left hand to shake her hand. ‘Agreed,’ he said, and paused to shuffle his thoughts and memory in order.

‘The journey began...well, I suppose it began with a Hobbit and a small, cosy smial...’

Dís was an attentive listener, listening raptly to his descriptions of the Shire and Bag End, laughing as Bilbo relayed his confusion over the sudden arrival of Dawlin, Balin and Fíli and Kíli – ‘he _always_ does that,’ tutted Dís, ‘tracking mud everywhere. I do apologise, Bilbo’ – and how the Dwarves had emptied his larder faster even than Hobbits were capable of. Bilbo elected not to tell her of his uneasiness throughout the evening. It was not something he particularly wanted to delve into at the present time, and a far more light-hearted narrative was called for.

He detailed the rest of the party in short order – ‘that’s my brother, always one for dramatic entrances’ – and his sudden decision to take Gandalf up on his offer. It was all going splendidly right up until the point when Bilbo began to talk of the discovery of Orcrist and the troll hoard.

‘Excuse me,’ said Dís, ‘but I think you might have missed something there. How did you come across the hoard again?’

‘Er,’ said Bilbo, floundering momentarily, ‘well, you see, we were camped not far from it and...and the ponies – they...bolted.’

‘Bolted? What caused them to bolt?’

‘Ori, he – he dropped a load of firewood,’ said Bilbo, trying not to let his nerves show, ‘very suddenly.’

Dís gave him a long, cool look. ‘And the ponies simply bolted.’

‘Yes.’

‘And...in chasing after them, you stumbled across the hoard?’

Bilbo nodded a little too enthusiastically. ‘Exactly.’

There was a long pause. Dís smoothed out her skirts.

‘Bilbo, I think there might be something that you’re not telling me. Some part of this story that you’re covering up, for whatever reason.’

‘No, not at all!’

Dís’ look sharpened. Bilbo tried not to fidget like a fauntling caught with biscuit crumbs around his mouth before teatime. He rather thought he was failing.

‘You need not hold back,’ she said, ‘I understand that my sons and my brother were in danger during this journey, and that there are parts of it that I might not like. I would still hear those parts regardless.’

Oh, bother, now Bilbo felt guilty. He tried to hold his nerve in the face of Dís’ unrelenting attention. This is ridiculous, Bilbo thought, you have faced down orcs and wargs alike and you can meet an eagle’s gaze without flinching. You should be able to stare down one Dwarf.

As it turned out, he couldn’t. ‘It was just one little incident with a troll,’ Bilbo burst out, resolve cracking.

‘A _troll_?’ said Dís, alarmed.

‘Well, no, it was actually _three_ trolls-‘

‘Three.’

‘Yes, and there was no harm done! It was just a little misunderstanding, really, and it was only me who got hurt.’

‘Bilbo,’ said Dís, interrupting Bilbo’s rambling with an air of great patience, ‘I think you’d better start at the beginning.

Bilbo did. He hurried through the whole sorry tale, all but rushing to the part with the sacks in his haste to get it over and done with. When he could finally draw breath, he found that he couldn’t read Dís’ expression at all.

‘Sacks,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ said Bilbo wretchedly.

‘You were all in...sacks.’

‘Yes.’

‘Including Thorin. In a sack.’

‘ _Yes_.’

There was another pause. Dís then burst out laughing.

‘Please don’t tell Thorin I said anything,’ said Bilbo over her breathless laughter.

‘Oh, no,’ said Dís between giggles, ‘this is too good to simply _tell_ him-‘ and she was lost again in laughter.

Bilbo looked up at the ceiling. He should have stuck with his contemplation of the geometric pattern. Far less dangerous.

Dís’ gales of laughter eventually subsided enough for her to speak. There was an unholy gleam in her eye. She leant over to pat Bilbo’s hand and said, ‘oh, Mister Baggins, I have to thank you for this.’

‘What are you going to do?’ said Bilbo with no small amount of dread.

‘You’ll know soon enough. But let’s just say that I am going to teach you _all_ the best swearwords.’

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: In this world, which Line you're descended from matters. There's a certain hierarchy that most Dwarves know, but to the upper-classes it's crucial. When you're introducing yourself, you're supposed to refer to the highest-ranking parent or the more noble of the two Lines - gender doesn't come into it. So Dis would be 'Dis, of the Line of Durin/Dis, daughter of Thrain' because nothing trumps the Line of Durin, and Kili would say, 'Kili, of the line of Durin/Kili, son of Dis'.

Fíli was dawdling, he knew - dragging his breakfast out for as long as he could, and his mother was shooting him sharp looks with increasing disapproval with every passing minute. But really, what other outcome had she expected? You couldn’t give a young Dwarf such a dull workload and not expect him to be less than thrilled about it.

At the other end of the breakfast table, Thorin was unconsciously mirroring his sister’s actions. Bilbo had stubbornly decided that he would eat breakfast at the table that morning, not in bed – ‘like an invalid’ – and after a great deal of fussing, Thorin had helped him to the table. Now he appeared to be waiting for the first hint of pain in Bilbo’s expression, ready at a moment’s notice to escort the Hobbit back to bed. Bilbo, for his part, was attempting to pay no attention to the unwanted worrying of his intended and was pointedly helping himself to breakfast, likely ignoring the strain such actions surely had to be placing on his injured shoulder.

Fíli attempted to hunker down in his seat, trying not to chew too loudly. He was just waiting for the moment that one of them snapped. Needless to say, the breakfast table was rife with tension that morning.

He wondered again where Kíli had gotten to. He felt his brother’s absence keenly – he would sorely like to share his uncomfortable breakfast with someone else. At the very least, his mother’s looks would be split two ways if Kíli were sat beside him. But Kíli’s door had remained shut when Fíli had risen that morning in the wing that had been allocated to the two of them. This alone had been cause enough to worry – Kíli was one of those strange Dwarves that actually enjoyed being up early, whereas Fíli was of the opinion that mornings shouldn’t be allowed to exist at all. Kíli not being up early to pester Fíli had been worrisome enough, but his absence at breakfast was downright unnerving.

Fíli had finished his fifth round of toast by the time Kíli wandered in, looking oddly pale under his perpetually messy fringe.

‘Good morning, brother,’ Fíli said delightedly, pleased that for once he could be the frightfully cheerful one and Kíli the groggier of the two, ‘you look like you’ve been out drinking. You haven’t found the taverns already, have you? And you haven’t told me?’

‘No, no taverns,’ said Kíli, seating himself at the table and helping himself to some bread and cured ham.

Fíli had been expecting Kíli to grumble, to push at Fíli’s shoulder half-heartedly. Fíli shared a look with his mother, and tried again.

‘We’ve a great day lined up ahead of us,’ said Fíli as Kíli took his first bite, ‘just think, in an hour’s time we could be helping out all of those fuss-pot officials. I can hardly wait.’

Kíli grunted in response.

‘Is there something wrong with the work I’ve given you, Fíli?’ said Thorin.

‘No, not at all,’ Fíli hastened to say.

‘Because I can always give you some other responsibilities instead,’ his Uncle went on, ‘there’s rooms to be scrubbed clean of dust and dirt. Would you rather that, instead?’

‘I think you were reading sarcasm in my tone, Thorin,’ said Fíli, ‘I am offended and hurt. I am genuinely looking forward to helping those fine, up-standing officials with their valuable work.’

Bilbo snorted into his tea. Thorin hid his smile in his next bite.

‘Good,’ Thorin said, ‘I am glad to hear it.’

There was a pause in the conversation that dragged on for too long and Fíli, after a moment, realised what they had all been waiting for – Kíli should have added another quip, another riposte or a joke or a laugh, at the very least. Kíli continued to stare down at his plate, chewing mechanically, and Dís was now peering at her youngest in obvious concern.

‘How is your leg today, Kíli?’ asked Dís.

‘It’s fine.’

‘If it’s causing you pain, then you can always help me in my office instead, I’ll-‘

‘No, it’s not hurting anymore.’

‘Alright, then. But I could ask Óin to make you up some more ointment just in-‘

‘It’s _fine_ ,’ Kíli snapped, ‘for Mahal’s sake, leave it alone, would you?’

The ferocity of Kíli’s outburst took them all aback. Thorin opened his mouth, a sharp reprimand ready and waiting to be voiced, but Fíli got there first.

‘Kíli! What’s gotten in to you?’

Kíli shoved his plate away, the fine china clattering across the table, rose from his seat and, without a word of apology to any of them, stormed out of the dining hall.

Thorin was half-way out of his seat, expression furious, glowering in the direction of Kíli’s exit. Dís placed a hand on her brother’s arm and shook her head, nodding to Fíli, who answered her unvoiced question by rising and hurrying after Kíli.

His brother hadn’t gone far – Fíli needed only to jog down the wide, spacious corridor that connected the dinning hall to the west wing of the palace to catch up with Kíli. Fíli grabbed Kíli’s shoulder and forcibly turned Kíli towards him.

‘Kíli, hold on, where are you-‘

‘Just leave me alone, Fíli,’ said Kíli all but bristling with anger, shrugging off Fíli’s hand and staring at a point over Fíli’s shoulder. 

‘Not without an apology from you, first. Or an explanation, at the very least.’

‘You’ll get neither from me,’ Kíli said, but his barely-contained anger faltered for a moment, ‘though I might apologise to Mum, later. Just...leave me alone, would you, Fíli?’

Fíli, at a complete loss, rolled back onto the heels of his feet. A spark of concern flared up at the note of pleading in Kíli’s tone. 

‘Kíli, if you want to talk-‘

‘I don’t,’ said Kíli definitively.

‘Alright then. Alright,’ said Fíli, letting out a long breath, holding up one hand in surrender, ‘I’ll...I’ll see you at dinner.’

Kíli didn’t even bother with a goodbye – he simply walked away, and Fíli had no choice but to watch him go, worry creasing his brow.

 

 

The front gates of Erebor were colossal, so tall that Hatha’s neck would surely feel the strain of staring up at them. She had been told of their size, but nothing truly compared to seeing it with her own eyes – no bedtime story could equal the sight of the strong brackets for the gates arching high over her head. She stepped through the gate and wondered if she should feel any different. I am a Dwarf of Erebor, now, she thought, and perhaps her step was a little lighter as she moved forwards, into the welcoming dark.

The halls inside were bigger still and echoed with the sounds of Dwarven camps further in. Some Dwarves around her were gasping and pointing; Hatha could understand the feeling. She couldn’t see much of what was ahead through the press of the crowd, but she was perfectly content to simply walk along with the rest and admire the architecture. It thrilled her to see so many Dwarven designs in one place, to take note of the intricate, clever patterns that locked the stonework together. She had only ever seen such designs in bits and pieces, in sketches or miniaturised and used to decorate jewellery. For the first time, she was seeing them whole and complete. As they should be.

They arrived at a sprawling hall to be greeted by the camps of soldiers. Officials scurried about, attempting to marshal them in to some manner of order so that their names and occupations could be recorded, but some of the weary travellers were instead wandering about, staring around them with wide eyes, while others were sitting down for a well-earned rest.

Hatha stayed standing, but began to direct her gaze towards the camps. She pretended to be fascinated by the hall’s ceilings and not yet ready to join the queue, all the while assessing the stationed Dwarves out of the corner of her eye.

She would need to give her name and her Line, she knew. She was prepared for that. As for her trade, she could simply tell the truth – she had no trade to speak of, and had come to Erebor to apply for one, and if some snot-nosed official were to ask her why she did not already have a trade at her age, then Hatha already had an excuse planned. A few tears, a few hints at family tragedy, or a betrothal gone terribly wrong, and they’d likely be too embarrassed to enquire further. And then, at last, she would have her new beginning.

She cast an eye towards the camped Dwarves. They had to be Daín’s soldiers, Dwarves of the Iron Hills. There were many who appeared to be nursing injuries, and she was sure that the tents hid many more wounded. The more able-bodied looked exhausted. She wondered if they had chosen to remain in Erebor for the winter out of the goodness of their hearts, of if they simply had no other choice.

Something bright caught her eye. Affecting an awed expression, she carefully turned towards it. A golden head of hair had drawn her attention almost inexorably towards its source; a young Dwarf, about her age by the look of him, stood a little way away, discussing something with an official. He was handsome, certainly, with his long straight nose and his tussled golden hair, but she was more interested in his clothes. Travelling clothes, she thought. Well-made but much-used. Twin swords on his back and vambraces marked him out as something other than just another official – a soldier, perhaps? Yes, a soldier – he was holding his right arm a little stiffly, as though he were nursing a wound. There were at least two different kinds of precious metals in his hair, and she knew with absolute certainty and a connoisseur’s eye that they were not the sort of beads a middle-class Dwarf would wear. 

A noble’s son, then. Perfect. She began to drift closer to him, but indecision caused her steps to falter. She had meant for Erebor to be a new start. She had meant to leave such things behind. The old Hatha was gone, replaced someone who did not even contemplate such things. But her purse was empty, and with no trade to speak of she had little to offer Erebor in exchange for food.

Just this one, last time she thought. Just this once, and then never again.

She hardened her resolve, put her hands behind her back, and let her line of sight fall ever-so-naturally towards the Dwarf. He just happened to glance up just as her eyes alighted on him. Yes, definitely handsome. Hatha gave him a quick, fleeting smile, bright but unsure, and turned away as though embarrassed to be caught staring. She could feel his gaze on her as she turned away.

Go on, she willed. Take a break from whatever you’re doing and chat to a little lost Dwarf newly arrived and in need of help.

She was not disappointed. He broke away from the official and began to approach her.

‘It’s amazing, isn’t it?’ he said when he was in speaking distance, stopping a respectful distance away. Drat. He was being far too polite.

‘It is,’ she replied, letting all the wonder she felt enter into her voice, ‘better than anything I’ve ever dreamed of.’

‘But where are my manners,’ said the Dwarf with a smile, ‘Fíli, son of Víli, at your service,’ and he bowed low, far too low for the rank her braids and beads marked her for.

Oh, Hatha was going to feel so _very_ guilty. She hastened to sweep into a bow of her own, dipping her head, purposefully fumbling the gesture.

‘Hatha, daughter of Iulda, at yours. It’s a pleasure to meet you.’

He tilted his head to one side. ‘Hatha? Like Hathèn the Brave?’

It was a question she had been asked time and time again. She had always found it easy to smile and laughingly confirm it with a joke at her own expense. But there was something about Fíli, son of Víli’s curious, open gaze that made her carefully-constructed phrases stick in her throat.

‘Yes,’ she said tightly, trying to smile, ‘Yes, like Hathèn. My mother was...was always fond of that story. It was her favourite.’

That was far more personal information than she had intended to give out.

‘You’ll have to visit the Hall of Tales,’ he said, ‘there’s a portrait of her on the second floor, or so I’m told.’

She hummed. ‘Perhaps I will. But for now I’d rather stand back and just look at all these engravings.’

‘Better that than look at all the smelly soldiers down below?’ he said, ‘I can’t say I blame you. We are a spectacularly ugly lot.’

She gave a chuckle at that, but inwardly crowed as he did exactly what she had hoped he would - he started looking up. She swept a glance around them. Good. No one was paying them much attention, and look at that - there was a lovely pipe sat in Fíli's pocket, lightly engraved and embellished with silver. Surely such a thing could be used to barter for her dinner.

'I wouldn't say that,' she said, and blushed bright red. She hadn't meant for that to slip out, but she used it to her advantage, pretending to stare up at the ceiling and hastily cover up her slip, 'er, I mean - it's very lovely. I think I recognise some of those patterns over there, too. My aunt had a necklace with something similar engraved on it.'

He was laughing at her, she could tell, all crinkly-eyed amusement. She tried not to look at him.

'Yes,' he said thankfully going along with the change in the conversation, 'it's called the load-lock. It bears most of the weight of the arch, you see. It's a common architectural design. The Dwarves of the First Age invented it. Very keen on making even the most practical things pretty.'

Steady your nerve, Hatha willed to herself internally. Wait until he shifts right a little and puts his weight on his left foot.

'That's fascinating,' she said out loud, 'are you an architect, then? I ought to test you, just to make sure. What's that structure over there called?'

Obligingly, he turned to follow the line of her finger. With light hands Hatha slipped the pipe from his pocket, as easy as breathing, transferring it around the small of her back and placing it in her own pocket on her left side.

Her heart thrilled, and for a split second it wasn't about survival, or necessity, but the simple joy of pulling off a trick with no more than her wits and skill.

‘That’s a buttress – try not to laugh,’ Fíli was saying, and Hatha hastened to look like she was paying attention, ‘it’s a very old architectural technique. We don’t use it so much, anymore. It’s used to strengthen walls, or take some of the side-ways thrust created by an arch.’

He caught her eye and Hatha tried not to snigger like a Dwarf half her age and say, _‘side-ways thrust, so that’s what they call it?’_ Such a thing would be most unbecoming; her father had taught her better than that.

‘But buttresses aren’t all that interesting,’ said Fíli in the same tone, ‘what’s more interesting is how you’ve managed to end up with something of mine in your left pocket.’

The bottom dropped out of Hatha’s stomach. It felt as though she had been thrown into an icy lake and her mind was reeling from the shock of it. She attempted to smile blandly and say, ‘whatever do you mean, Master Fíli?’

There was no anger to be found anywhere in Fíli’s face, but fear caused her heart to pound all the same. ‘I have recently spent a great deal of time with a thief,’ he chuckled, ‘and I have a little brother who likes to think he has light fingers. You’ll have to do better than that to steal from me, Miss Hatha.’

Hadn’t raised the alarm yet – Hatha didn’t care why, only that there was still time for her to run.

‘You’ve no need to steal, here,’ Fíli said, ‘we have food-‘

She bolted, diving through the space between two large families that closed behind her, weaved around a group of young male Dwarves, dodged an old Dwarrowdam carrying three young ones on her back, and ducked under the overhang created by a small tent. There had been no sounds of ‘thief, thief!’, nor steel-capped boots thudding over the ground in hot pursuit, but she did not slow in her headlong dash to escape, panic driving her forwards when logic would have dictated that she could have stopped minutes ago.

She was standing in near pitch-black darkness by the time she was forced to stop and put her hands to her knees, sucking in huge gulps of air. She glanced behind her, straining every sense to be certain she had escaped, but she should not have worried. She was alone once more, in a colonnaded courtyard that had probably once been one of the more prestigious sections of the market. Hatha eased herself down to sit on the lip of the courtyard’s ornamental fountain, long since run dry. She cursed herself, her stupidity, cussing out a blue streak that would have made even the most down-to-earth of miners blush.

‘You moron,’ she muttered once she had gotten her breath back, and her fury had abated enough for her to think beyond, _what have you done_.

Caught on her first day in Erebor. She would have to keep her head down from now on and hope against hope that FIli wouldn’t report her. It was the wish of a madwoman, she knew – she still had his pipe, and surely he’d come after her for that alone, and he’d bring the guards, and she would be barred from joining a guild or getting a trade and-

Hatha clamped down, hard, on that line of thought. Panicked thoughts were not helpful at all, and she was determined not to be caught twice. It won’t happen, she told herself, _I won’t be caught_.

She would have to sleep in the courtyard - she couldn’t possibly go back to the camps now. She turned on the spot, taking in her surroundings and looking for something suitable to sleep on, and as she did so the pipe stuck into her hip. She dug into her pocket and drew it out. She had almost lost her freedom to the stupid thing, and she might as well take a closer look at the fruits of her labours.

The pipe was long and elegantly shaped, wooden, but embellished with silver around the mouthpiece and the generous curve. The silver had been molded to make a pretty little relief of a group of Dwarves hard at work in a mine, but Hatha paid little attention to this. She was more interested in the mark in the metal near the mouthpiece, a mark that was brighter than the rest, as though it had only recently been etched into the silver, but it was no silversmith’s hallmark; her father had taught her well, because she knew in an instant what it was.

The emblem of the Crown Prince of Erebor.

The courtyard rang with the sound of just one word shouted in utter fury:

‘ _Bollocks!_ ’

 

 

Dale was a burnt out husk. Its walls had been stained black by Smaug's fire, great streaks scorched across pale bricks. In some ways the dragon's destruction was more obvious here than it was in Erebor or in Laketown. Not a single house had been left untouched; sunlight fell through the punched out holes in rooves, over staircases revealed by collapsed walls, and everywhere nature had crept back in winding vines and the trees that stood incongruously in the middle of streets.

It was perfect for Kíli. He had set up an archery range in the lower part of the city, in what he assumed had once been the training grounds for the guards of Dale. He was starkly aware of how lonely the streets were, how melancholy the faded colours of Dale's painted walls, and how the weak winter sunlight seemed to cast a pale grey light over the quiet city. Not a sound stirred here save the occasional gust through the alleyways, stirring up dead leaves, and the lack of birdsong was startling.

He set down one quiver of arrows and kept the other on his back. The target he had set up at the other end of the courtyard was a comfortable distance away and would not truly test his skill - he would move it back after the first quiver was empty.

His feet and torso slid smoothly into position, dark eyes focused on the target and all other distractions fell away. He drew an arrow from the quiver and in one fluid motion, notched it to his bow, drew back to his full draw, and let fly. The next arrow was quick to follow with barely a pause between shots, and Kíli's steady breathing and the singing of the bow created a rhythm of their own in the hushed town, arrow after arrow let loose, until his quiver was empty.

Kíli flicked out his fingers and lowered the bow. He clenched his teeth together so tightly his jaw began to ache. Hardness stole over his face, setting his features to stone, with only his eyes flickering with his anger. Kíli stalked forward, long stride quickly taking him to the end of the range.

Not a single arrow had hit its mark.

Kíli set about retrieving his arrows, placing them back into the quiver. He very pointedly did not look at the target, instead turning and retaking his place at the other end of the range. He took up his position again, took a hard, forceful breath through his nose, and resumed firing.

This time, one arrow hit the target, though it hit a good foot away from the bullseye. A smile flittered over Kíli’s mouth, the only break in his concentration so far, but the next arrow did not follow its fellow – it went wide, very wide, clattering off of the wall, way off the mark. Kíli’s draw hand began to tremble ever so slightly, nearly imperceptible to the eye, but it made all the difference to his aim. The next five arrows were wildly off target.

Both quivers were empty. Kíli’s arm and back were aching with the strain, but still he drew back on his last arrow. He was almost bearing his teeth in frustration, and he visibly tried to reign in his frustration as he pulled the final arrow back.

It made no difference – the arrow fell short. Kíli let out a strangled shout of pure anger and flung his bow away, the weapon clattering against the nearest wall. He was suddenly gasping for breath, and lifted his shaking hands to his face, digging his fingers into his scalp.

For a while, Kíli simply stood there, breathing raggedly, the lines of his body held tightly as though he may fly apart at any moment. He lowered his hands and stared out at the target, eyes unseeing, and said, tone laced with accusation,

‘What business does an Elf have in Dale?’

‘I could say the same to you,’ said Legolas, stepping out from the shadows. He seemed not to care that he had been caught out.

‘I have a right to be here. You don’t. Are you spying on us?’

Kíli wished desperately that he hadn’t thrown his bow away. It wouldn’t be of any use – his quivers were empty – but his hands ached for the familiar curve of it in his grip. Dwalin would be furious, he knew – the stupidity of it, throwing your weapon away. Kíli shifted his fingers ever so slightly, resting them atop of the sword about his waist.

‘No, I am not.’

‘Are you spying on me?’

Legolas slid his too-blue eyes over to Kíli. ‘I am not spying on you. You are not as interesting as you think you are, Master Dwarf.’

‘Then why are you here?’

Kíli had half a mind to abandon his gear and leave for Erebor, but it smacked too much of retreat. He held his ground instead, in spite of the humiliation rolling around in his stomach. The Elven Pinceling had likely seen Kíli’s temper tantrum, and his terrible attempts at archery.

‘Curiosity. Likely the same urge that brought you here.’

‘Don’t assume you know a thing about me,’ sneered Kíli. ‘Whatever your reasons, this town is large enough – find your own archery range.’

‘Perhaps not curiosity, then,’ said Legolas, tipping his head to one side like a curious bird as though the new angle would provide some previously unseen insight into the behaviour of strange young Dwarves. ’Perhaps a desire to be alone.’

Kíli could feel himself bearing his teeth in a snarl. He felt like a wild animal, entrapped, unwilling to flee but unable to withstand the scrutiny brought by standing his ground. His dominant arm was beginning to shake – a fine tremble that began in his shoulder and ran all the way down to the tips of his fingers.

Legolas smiled blithely and made his exit, his feet barely making a sound as he climbed the little set of stairs to the street. But a quick-fire question shot at his back caused the Elf to halt in his tracks.

‘Why did you help Bilbo?’

‘Why do _you_ think I did?’

Kíli snorted in disgust. ‘That’s a bit childish, isn’t it? Answering a question with another question? I thought Elves were beyond that.’

‘There is much you do not know about us.’

‘Yes, I’m sure there is. I don’t care if the amount I know about Elves could barely cover the back of a spoon. You didn’t answer the question.’

Legolas’ half-smile took on a decidedly sly slant. ‘It sounded like fun, at the time.’

Kíli’s only response was to glare. Legolas’ smile slipped, and he shrugged. ‘Did Bilbo not tell you of my reasons?’

‘He did, but I’m certain he was being kind. I’d like to hear it from you.’

‘Why?’

 

Kíli grinned. ‘Curiosity,’ he said in a sarcastic drawl, and Legolas let out a little breath through his nose.

‘I’m sure Bilbo was very truthful. I merely wanted to help my father. I had my King and my people’s best interests at heart.’

‘I’m sure Thranduil was really thankful.’

‘We had a long and productive conversation on the topic,’ said Legolas, ignoring Kíli’s bark of laughter. ‘You should be thanking me, Master Dwarf. Without my help the Company might never have reached Laketown.’

‘Bilbo would have found a way,’ Kíli said with absolute certainty.

‘Perhaps, though it would have taken longer.’

‘If you love your kin enough to work against them,’ said Kíli, ‘then why have you wandered so far from them?’

‘Ah, and so we come full circle. Forgive me, I had no idea Thorin had claimed Dale as his own,’ said Legolas lightly, eyes sparkling with good humour. ‘Am I trespassing? I saw no banner on the battlements. Or are we to fight to the death over this land, here and now, and the winner is proclaimed King of the castle?’

‘Shut up,’ said Kíli half-heartedly, suddenly feeling very foolish. ‘Can you ever answer a question? Is that beyond you?’

Legolas’ teasing air faded, and he looked away from Kíli, one of his hands twitching at his side.

‘Very well, Master Dwarf,’ he said, ‘I will answer you, and then I will leave you alone to practise your archery, free of the annoyance of my presence.’

Legolas half-turned to go, a strange little smile lifting up one corner of his mouth. ‘We have something in common, you and I. The reasoning for my wandering...well, it is the same thing that clouds your aim.’

Legolas had all but disappeared, a pale ghost fading into the backdrop of the city, but Kíli caught the last whispered word all the same:

‘Fear.’

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The next chapter is half-written already, and should be along soon!
> 
> The idea that Erebor would have Law-courts is entirely madame_faust's idea. If any of you are Dis fans, I'd really recommend her story, 'Wild Geese'.
> 
> Dis-as-Spymistress and Nori as her Lieutenant comes from eaivalefay and mine's extensive chats. Thank you m'dear for all your wonderful comments, ideas, and excellent taste in books :D


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